


Holiday Spirit

by globalista



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dubious Consent, F/M, Fluff, Holidays, Thanksgiving, Under-the-table action, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-30
Updated: 2014-08-30
Packaged: 2018-02-15 09:05:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2223312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/globalista/pseuds/globalista
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellamy, Clarke, and a little under-the-table action at Thanksgiving.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Holiday Spirit

**Author's Note:**

> This story features an issue of dubious consent. It's a short piece so it may not be clear that consent is implied between the two main characters.

Thanksgiving is Clarke’s least favorite holiday.

For starters, the vacation is never long enough. Two days off work is like a tease, not a real break. Then there’s the food. She doesn’t want to seem un-American, but who decided that everything has to be mushy?

And finally there are the Blakes – well, one Blake in particular. Ever since Bellamy and Octavia’s mother died, Abby has decided that Clarke’s childhood playmate and her brother need to spend Thanksgiving with ‘someone who cares about them.’

That person is not Clarke. She doesn’t mind Octavia; they grew apart as teens but they get along fine. It’s Bellamy that makes her blood boil. He’s as annoying as he was when they were kids, always disagreeing with her, patronizing her, getting in her face with his oversized ego. He stops just short of pulling her hair, although Clarke wouldn’t put it past him.

Just thinking about it makes her slam one of the dinner plates on the table a little too hard.

“Careful,” Abby scolds her. “That’s the good china.”

Clarke rolls her eyes and continues setting the table. Her mother really goes all out – fall-colored candles, bouquets spaced every twelve inches, little place cards at each seat (Clarke is reminded of where she gets her OCD tendencies) and the aforementioned good china.

The doorbell rings.

“Will you get it, honey?” Abby says. It’s not a request. “I’ve got to check on the turkey.”

Clarke opens the door to greet her grandmother, aunt, uncle and two younger cousins. She ushers everyone into the living room for some pre-dinner cider, spiced to perfection by Abby.

“How’s work, Clarke?” her uncle Joe asks.

“It’s going well. I’m up for a promotion next month.”

“That’s wonderful, sweetie,” her grandmother chimes in – and then, apropos of nothing: “Are you seeing anyone?”

Clarke is saved from answering by the doorbell ringing again. She plasters a smile on her face before greeting the younger of the Blake siblings.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Clarke!” Octavia exclaims, balancing an apple pie and a bottle of wine.

“This smells delicious,” Clarke says, relieving her of the dish.

“What, Princess? No greeting for me? Is that any way to treat your guests?”

Clarke sighs. Here they go again. “Hello, Bellamy.”

He is unfortunately looking very handsome, Clarke thinks. His hair is combed back and his sweater is just a little too tight on his upper arms. She reminds herself that she hates him and looks away before he catches her.

“Come in and have some cider.” Clarke leads them to the living room before taking the pie to the kitchen.

“Is everyone here?” Abby asks.

“Yep. Octavia brought wine, too.”

“Perfect. Will you ask Joe to carve the turkey?”

Clarke carries out her mother’s orders and successfully manages to avoid Bellamy until it’s time to sit down to dinner. She heads for her usual spot next to her aunt, but Octavia is sitting there, her name written in Abby’s curling script on the place card. Clarke looks around, momentarily confused, until she sees the one empty chair at the other end of the table. Next to Bellamy.

Clarke gives her mother an incredulous look but only gets a disapproving one in return. Abby will not have her perfect holiday table disrupted by a petulant child – or at least that’s how Clarke interprets their wordless exchange. She knows that arguing is futile, not when the good china is involved.

Practically stomping to her seat – a little bit of petulance never hurt anybody – Clarke deposits herself between Bellamy and her six-year-old cousin Matt. She has a feeling she knows which one would offer a more mature level of conversation.

After Abby says grace and the dishes start making their way around the table, Clarke turns to her cousin. “What do you think about first grade, Mattie?”

Matt animatedly tells about her about their class pet, a turtle named Sally, while Clarke serves food to them both and passes the dishes along to Bellamy. Each time he takes a plate or bowl from her, he brushes her hands. After the sweet potatoes, the stuffing and the green beans, Clarke knows she’s not imagining it.

She narrows her eyes at him. “Stop it.”

He smiles innocently, but Clarke sees the mischievous glint in his eyes. “Stop what, Princess?”

Unimpressed, Clarke holds his gaze for a moment before turning back to her cousin. They are deep in discussion about the merits of Superman versus Captain America – Clarke is partial to the former but Matt is making some very good arguments – when she feels a hand on her leg.

Clarke whips her head around but Bellamy is acting normally, eating forkfuls of cranberries. She tries to dislodge his hand from her thigh but he only tightens his grip. Clarke is just about to give him a piece of her very angry mind when Abby clinks a knife against her wine glass, getting everyone’s attention.

“I would like us to go around the table and say what we’re thankful for.” She smiles serenely. “I am thankful that all of you came today and that I get to share this holiday with such lovely family and friends.”

Another reason Clarke hates Thanksgiving: Her mother makes them do this every year but it never gets less awkward. And that’s not when she’s being simultaneously groped under the table by her worst enemy.

Also, why did she decide wear a skirt?

As each person tries to come up with something unique – because really, Abby about covered it – Bellamy’s hand creeps farther and farther up Clarke’s thigh. She pushes at him but he won’t budge. Abby sees her squirming and gives her a harsh look.

It’s Bellamy’s turn. “I am thankful for this delicious food” – this earns him a chuckle – “and the wonderful hospitality of the Griffin women.” He raises his eyebrows at Clarke. “Your turn, Princess.”

“Um, I am thankful for” – she gulps as she feels Bellamy’s fingers curling around the inside of her upper thigh, where her skin is soft and warm – “getting to see my family together in one place,” she finishes in a rush.

Clarke lets out a breath as the table’s attention shifts to Matt. Bellamy is attempting to massage the inside of her thigh, but her legs are clamped tightly together, limiting his movements.

Bellamy leans close to her but keeps his eyes on the gravy boat. “Stop fighting me, Clarke.”

She considers his request. If anyone asks, she could always deny it later; everyone knows how much they dislike each other. It wouldn’t hurt to release a little frustration. And his fingers feel very nice against her skin.

Clarke licks her lips and spread her legs. She can feel Bellamy’s exhale on her neck. His hand heads in the opposite direction from what she expected, back down her leg again. He starts stroking the underside of her knee lightly, sending a shiver down her spine.

Her grandmother finishes her little ‘what I’m thankful for’ speech and everyone resumes eating. Clarke realizes she should try to act natural, but the feeling of Bellamy’s thumb making circles on the inside of her knee, right where her leg bends, is driving her to distraction.

“So, Bellamy, how’s work?” Her voice is slightly breathless and he smirks.

“I didn’t know you were so interested, Princess.”

“Just making conversation.” She gives him a fake smile.

“Well, if you must know, I very much like the work environment at my firm.”

His hand shoots straight up her skirt until it can’t go any higher. Clarke gasps.

“Everyone is so warm and welcoming,” he continues, his voice dark and smooth as he starts to stroke her over her panties.

Clarke is practically vibrating as she grips the sides of the chair. She chances a glance at Bellamy to find him watching her intently, his dilated pupils the only indication that what he’s doing to her is also affecting him. Clarke runs her tongue along her bottom lip and he follows the movement with his eyes. The pressure from his fingertips intensifies and Clarke thinks she is going to –

“Clarke.” Her mother’s voice startles her and she breaks away from Bellamy’s gaze. “Will you start to clear the table, please?” It’s not a request.

Bellamy removes his hand and Clarke is at once relieved and disappointed. She draws in a shaky breath.

“Sure, Mom.” She grabs the first two dishes she can reach and pushes her chair back from the table. She can feel Bellamy’s arm brush hers as he stands, too.

“Bellamy, you’re a guest,” Abby insists. “You don’t have to clean up.”

“I haven’t lifted a finger yet today. But don’t worry” – he winks and Clarke swears her mother blushes a little – “I won’t work too hard.”

When they’re in the kitchen and safely out of earshot, Clarke whirls around and glares at him. “What did you think you were doing back there?” she hisses.

Bellamy crosses his arms over his chest. “If I recall, you were a willing participant.”

“That’s not what I meant.” She fists a hand in his sweater and yanks him toward the pantry. “You need to finish what you started.”

Bellamy smiles widely and starts working on the buttons of her cardigan. “Now that’s the holiday spirit.”


End file.
